


Reverence

by Slater_Babe



Series: Revelation [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cum Play, Din Djarin is a tit man, F/M, Fantasizing, Hand Jobs, Mando goes to horny jail, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Pining, Religious Conflict, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Wet Dream, What's a refractory period, Yearning, You heard it here first, a lot of creative liberties were taken when it comes to mandalorian culture, breeding kink if you squint really hard, mentioned teenaged sex, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29749824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slater_Babe/pseuds/Slater_Babe
Summary: Reverence, or something akin to it, was the heart of his life. It lived in every action he took, every thought he had, and every person he dared care for. But when Din Djarin starts to care for you, however, something akin to reverence (yet completely unlike it) wreaks havoc on his body.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: Revelation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186562
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	1. Reverence

**Author's Note:**

> **[NOTES ARE LISTED IN THE SECOND CHAPTER AND DESCRIBE PARTS OF THE CREATIVE LIBERTIES TAKEN WHICH MAY BE IMPORTANT TO UNDERSTANDING THIS STORY]**
> 
> hello hello~~ alright so.....my good mutual Berli and I had this little idea in our mind........and now its out in the world after a very interesting night of writing. This was, as always, originally posted on my Tumblr, which I will link down below as always!! Feel free to comment on this story or send me an ask on Tumblr if you have a request you want written!! As always, any of the Pedro characters are game!! I hope you all like this little story~~ Notes are listed in the second chapter with explanations for parts of the story~
> 
> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)

Reverence, or something akin to it, was the heart of his life. 

It was shown in the armor he donned each day, in the proud way he carried himself when he wore it, teeming with remembrance and solemnity for his father before him, who’d so gladly taken him under his wing when the parents he could barely remember fell to something greater than he or they could ever know.

HIs father--his _buir_ \--had shown him The Way. In some respects, it was like seeing the light after a long spell of darkness: warm, all-encompassing, and comforting. It held strong with the promise of care, nourishment, and community just beyond its acceptance, but called for determination, piety, and loyalty in equal exchange.

The Way turned no one away at the door. It was there equally as much for the disheartened and abandoned as it was for the accomplished and decorated. The Way was _everything_ , or so his _buir_ had told him only the second night Din had been in his care, holding him against a battle scarred chest plate as he regaled a life brimming with purpose and belonging--a life brimming with everything his younger self had craved so desperately. 

So he’d said his vows and took the Creed the minute his _buir_ had thought him of age, having been gifted with a brand new, polished helm of his own, identical to the one that adorned his father’s head every waking minute. He still remembers the glamour of that day. His _buir_ had stood proudly off to the side while he swore his allegiance to Mandalore, armor specially outfitted with decorative seals and medals, a show of respect and accomplishment for having raised a foundling under the proper tradition and Way of the Manda’lor.

When the Clan leader had placed his helm upon his head for the first time, a cold sort-of seriousness washed over him from head-to toe, the cheering of his father and the other Mandalorians in the covert drowned beneath the heavy cover of beskar, only for the firm and excited touch of his _buir_ to shock him back to reality. That night, his father had held him close as he retold the ancient stories of Mandalore the Great--the stories he’d told a much younger Din probably a thousand times over, just to lull him to sleep. Only this time, the excited expression of his foundling wasn’t hanging onto his every word, twitching when the climaxes reached or splitting with a childish smile at the happy endings. Rather, it was the same metal façade that stared back at him in the mirror each morning, and he couldn’t have been more proud.

When Din had turned 18, his father had gladly given him his blessing to join the fighting corp. Though he was loath to watch the boy he’d saved, cared for, loved, and raised move on from this chapter of his life, he himself was older now, just barely standing straight under the weight of the armor he’d worn every day since the minute of his own induction. However, there was no higher honor than to fight for the spirit of Mandalore, to take the meaning of their existence to heart, and embody ‘change’ in and of itself.

The Fighting Corp _was_ The Way. So he’d watched the turned back of his teenaged son walk away from him without complaint, an entire new set of armor clinging loosely to that smaller, gangly frame, when it had once fit so snugly on his own.

And for the first few months of his time in the Fighting Corp, Din held strong to those higher truths his _buir_ had drilled into him from the minute he’d pulled him from that small, damp shelter. _Keep to yourself, actions speak louder than words. Don’t let the other kids pick on you too much, but don’t lord yourself over them either. Read the Texts when times are difficult; everything you need to know can be found in there when you need it. And--no matter what-- **never** take your helmet off._

He’d slept in the barracks with the other teenaged recruits for months on end, only the armor his father had previously worn and the Book of Texts he’d been gifted to his name. Every morning they’d wake with the sun, scarf down the meagre meals they were given in the privacy of the specially designed cantine, before moving onto sparring practice.

And that is when things began to fall apart. 

As teenagers living behind veritable metal walls, sparring practice was always quiet with some sort of unspoken agreement floating around the room. Whether or not the instructors were aware of it, to this day, Din has no idea.

There was something to be said about living through the beskar itself. Your armor was an expression of your being, a trophy of the hardships your _buir_ and their _buir_ before them had toiled through, just so that you now could wear it with equal reverence for what it symbolized. But, for as much as it was the spirit of your family protecting you from the physical harm that would inevitably come your way, it was also the sternness of their disapproval following you every time you deviated from your path.

And sparring practice was, unfortunately, a minefield of forks in the road.

It was a co-ed affair, boys and girls all in one room for hours on end, trading partners every so often, in order to experience different styles of fighting. He remembers sneaking looks out of the corner of his visor when the girls would come out for morning practice, their breastplates filling out in the front the longer time went on, cutting deliciously into their padded chests, where the soft outlines of their breasts could be seen underneath the metal and cloth.

He’d not been immune to it then, and he sure as hell wasn’t immune to it now. When it came to sparring practice, physical contact was unrestricted. Every movement was thinly veiled with the discipline only a fighter could carry, forceful and aggressive, reaching for any spot his hands could reach while his partner struggled against his hold. 

It went unsaid amongst the students in the room that sparring was a form of stress relief. It was a way for them to get their hands and bodies on each other when the tension was boiling over, to take what their religion deemed unnecessary and experience even a muted version of it, when the time was right. For Din, he’d watched many partners struggle in his embrace, spread out and panting beneath him as he pinned them to the ground with his hands and waist, uniform codpieces just barely keeping the lot of them from crossing any lines that would have had them punished for disorderly conduct. Having grown to an intimidating height and weight during the time he’d been there, it was easy to bring the smaller opponents under his control, to contort their bodies to his own and come out victorious, even when the lithe figures and slimmer waists of the female recruits had his eyes focused anywhere but on the traditional Texts he knew his father would prefer he read.

But, as if the look of his gloved hands around the thighs of a fellow trainee in the morning hours wasn’t enough, lights out was torture. Given the restrictions of their culture, lights out was nothing but pitch black silence, overbearing and heavy, under which they could remove their helmets for a few hours of blissful, deserved sleep. But, for the majority of the company, who were suffocated under the heavy weight of expectations and tradition during the day, teenage hormones tended to boil over in the middle of the night. Din had held off for the first few months of his enlistment, trying to imagine his fathers voice reading the Texts to him before bed, like he’d always done when Din was a child. But after a tiring half-year having passed, the thrills of sparring practice and recess making themselves well-known under his codpiece nearly every morning, he’d cracked.

He’d removed his gloves and taken care of himself, trying with all his might not to make a noise, lest one of the instructors decide tonight is the night for midnight Flying Phoenix drills. He’d come hard that night, smothering his gasp of relief into his company issued pillow while he stroked himself liberally, clumsily savoring his high for all it was worth. And as the years passed and their bodies grew out of that awkward, teenage phase, late night escapades to the locker rooms or to the adjacent bunk beds were commonplace, just another stint in between the two worlds they lived in: one of reverence, and one of escape.

There, he’d handled his problems in any manner of ways. A hand underneath the bed sheets, quiet grinding under the cover of darkness, fumbling blow jobs in the bathroom, or hurried hook-ups anywhere that allowed enough privacy to get away with it. By the time he was 20, he’d stopped reading the Texts altogether, entirely engulfed in the vicious cycle of sleep, wake, fantasize, indulge, and pretend, just like every other young man and woman housed in the barracks.

However, his graduation from the Fighting Corp abruptly ended the cycle all together. Clad in the armor of their ancestors, with brand new, sparkling weapons in their holsters, they stood at graduation, heads held high and shoulders taut, like they’d always had the piety that had just now been shocked back into them by the weight of the occasion. Twenty-years old and with too-many notches in his belt to show for it, he left the barracks with his helmet dipped in shame, the book of Texts under his arm as he vowed to live up to the expectations his _buir_ and Clan had trusted with him.

As a bounty hunter, he had the luxury of loneliness. No longer were there cramped rows of bunk beds and noisy periods of relaxation. Gone were the days where he’d have hushed conversations in the dark with whoever was sharing his bunk that night, hands running steady lines over each other’s faceless bodies, acting like everything was completely normal, until the helmets came back on again in the morning.

He hunted with aggressivity, projecting every anger and frustration he had into his brutal pursuit of credits, of honor, of prey. He punished himself with the chase, torturing his resolve by going days at a time without sleep, gun always cocked and within reach, custom-molded for his hand and no other. His weapons were his salvation, occupying his mind when all he had was the quiet hum of the Crest for months on end, in some cases. Cleaning his blasters and knives, reloading his whistling birds, polishing his armor--every step of the near nightly routine gave him a fulfillment he’d never known back in the barracks.

Ten years later, he was the spitting image of the perfect Mandalorian hunter. Now with armor of his own rather than his _buir_ ’s--a marker of success and hard work--he cycled through quarries with an efficiency only droids could manage. He left behind the fantasy of his life without the armor, because now, detached from his family name and entirely alone in the universe, it was the only thing that gave him recognition. Less and less did the helmet come off, let alone the rest of his clothing. Just looking in the mirror at his bare body felt wrong, almost as if he couldn’t recognize his own face anymore--and with the way he all but clung to the familiarity of his weapons locker and ritualistic work, it wasn’t hard to detach himself from every past experience that had come before his graduation.

He lived by his honor, an intimidating, ruthless killer with an unwavering vow to the Mandalorian Creed and his family therein. He’d die before he took the helmet off ever again, and if he had to kill to defend the oath he’d taken, then so be it.

Cold, calculated, detached, invincible, and unaffected. That’s what he was with the armor, with the strength of his culture and upbringing standing behind him. It was The Way.

Until suddenly it wasn’t. 

You hadn’t been part of the equation back then, but now, closer to forty than he was thirty and with a foundling of his own, it’s like the world had been turned on its axis. He’d never been a father before--that’s obvious enough--let alone a father to a creature of an entirely different species, who was also apparently from a race of enemy wizards or something...at least that’s what he gathered from the Armorer.

Needless to say, he was woefully underprepared. Never mind the fact his lifestyle was hardly conducive to raising children. There were more guns than ration bars in the hull, more blood spilled between the two of them than time spent in quiet contemplation, and worst of all, all he’d had to give the child to play with was a sad, metal ball that used the be the head of the gear shift in the cockpit.

Leaving for days, even weeks at a time, it was impractical and irresponsible on all parts--more child _endangerment_ than _enrichment_ , which Din suspected the kid desperately needed, what with how he anxiously clutched at Din’s clothing any time he so much as moved to exit the room.

And that’s where you came in. A spunky mechanic in Peli Motto’s repair hanger, a little more bark than bite, but with a mouth that could put any drunken sailor to shame. It goes without saying you’d easily caught his eye. Usually, he’d be annoyed at the incessant, flippant remarks you seemed to all too happy to dish out to him (even during your first meeting), but with you, your charm was in your informality. You had a spark to you he just couldn’t name, something hiding beneath the layers of clothing and protective gear you wore while fixing up ships that had him actually acknowledging your existence rather than just straight up ignoring you, like he did with most people.

However, watching you bring down a scavenger looking for spare parts in the shop one night using nothing but your bare hands and a few practiced movements, the light bulb above his head finally lit up. 

_Oh, so that’s what you were hiding._

A proclivity for violence and insubordination with a killer instinct for seemingly any scoundrel in a 10 mile radius, there was no more perfect a person for the job than you, and he’d be a fool to pass the chance up. You’d agreed with a small shrug, acting like his asking you was no big deal, but he could see the excitement teeming in your taut shoulders, a smile threatening to tug on your lips. 

A week later, the two of you had left Tattoine together, the baby in your arms instead of his this time, while Peli indignantly rambled on in the background, something about a short-staff and noncompete agreements.

Surprisingly, you didn’t take to hounding on the obvious stuff like you did the tiny details.

It was never _“why do you wear that bucket on your head, Mando?”_ like he’d gotten 100 times before; rather it was things like _“you really eat ration bars for three meals a day? You sure you’re not a serial killer?”_ or _“Maker, it’s like you’re flying a fucking Rock-Jumper. ‘Classic’ my ass, this is just dangerous.”_

Maybe a few years before, he’d have thought every word out of your mouth deserved a slap across the face. But after the year he’d just been through-- _and what a fucking year it had been_ \--your joking nature and half-witted quips had him huffing more than complaining.

And even more surprisingly, given how harsh you could be when you wanted to be, you were a complete natural with the kid. Perhaps it was the motherly instinct you swore up and down you _didn’t_ have, or the way you kissed the baby on the head every night before putting him to bed. Regardless, he’d stand in the doorway every night with quiet fascination, admiring the look of the baby held tight against your chest, a lullaby soft on your tongue.

And _that...That_ had him thinking dangerous things.

It started out small, a deviation he’d actually been oblivious to in the beginning. He’d watch as you went around your business closer than normal, usual clothing replaced with something lighter as you ducked in and out of the maintenance ducts to give the Crest a good once-over, unknowingly admitting that the way your pants hugged your legs looked a little scandalous when you bent into the floor ducts to check the engine. 

First it was that, and then it was on the clock as well. You, shuffling steadily beside him, blaster raised and at the ready, all but daring the universe to send another goon across your path, just to watch the way they gaped before you pulled the trigger. He’d been half-distracted by the sweat rolling down your collarbones to be entirely focused on the task at hand, blood weirdly loud where it rushed in his ears. He blamed the slight tightness in his pants on the adrenaline currently running its course rather than the scathing look on your face.

And after that, it’s like the maker’s got it out for him.

You like to laze around in between hunts, curled up on the floor of the hull with a few blankets to watch a holo-movie, while he disassembles his pulse-rifle at the table behind you. He watches the way your tank-top rides up your torso with a small stretch, exposing the smooth skin of your stomach to the cool air of the hull, and his gaze unintentionally follows. Inevitably--like it always does--his eyes can help but run up the curve of your chest, too (a habit he isn’t even aware he’s formed), yet his mouth goes dry for an entirely different reason. Your nipples show through the thin fabric, barely visible under the dim lighting, yet there all the same. A violent, unignorable feeling wells up inside of him, hands going loose around the rifle when he realizes you’ve forgone your chest band, boobs loose and soft-looking beneath the cover of your shirt.

Maker, it’s _torture._

The shorts, the shirts, the lack of propriety you’ve suddenly seemed to develop-- _all of it._ He can barely look you in the eye anymore, a thrumming, anticipatory feeling ingrained in his muscles now, as he watches you baby talk the kid where you lean over his crib, your plush bottom exposed for his unwilling eyes to drink in where your pajama shorts do little to cover your legs.

He bites his lips beneath the helmet, yelling at himself internally _to get his shit together_ before you turn back to face him, only for his visor to fall directly to your breasts the second you engage him. 

He mentally smacks himself over the head, willing his arousal away day after day by pure irritation alone, spending more time than ever rereading the Texts, because surely they’d have the answer to something like this. After all, hadn’t his _buir_ told him that everything he’d need would be right here?

But alas, there was hardly a passage or story that had anything to do with leering at your live-in mechanic any time she so much as talked to you, so, with a harty slam of the Book of Texts, Din resigned himself to just ignoring the problem (for as much as it _could_ be ignored) until it wasn’t a problem any longer.

Which turned out to be a much more intimidating task than he’d originally anticipated.

(Never mind the fact you were hardly helping, what with your offhanded, joking touches and sudden affinity for clothes that could care less whether or not they actually covered your skin to any measurable degree).

Maker, it’s like he’s been hard for _days_. The three of you had been stuck in hyperspace for a little longer than usual, traveling from the inner-rim to the outer-rim in order to collect the remaining quarries before returning to Nevarro. There was no time alone, no time away from your sunny smiles and overactive mouth which followed him everywhere he went, while he tried desperately to keep his lower body beneath the cover of tables or blankets when the opportunity presented itself. 

(Maybe those Fighting Corp uniforms had the right idea. Next time he chances upon a stash of beskar, he’ll shell out the hefty fee it takes to get himself a codpiece, if only for the purpose of hiding the arousal that never seemed to leave him nowadays).

And the longer it went on, the more antsy he got. Even when he was alone, he couldn’t escape his overager mind, always providing the imagery and scenarios it knew would have him reeling, whether or not he’d asked for it in the first place. The shower was the worst, however. Any time he so much as stepped under the spray, body bared for a few precious seconds in between hours of stifling cover, his cock was always pulled up hard against his stomach, angry and red with how long he’d ignored it. The water droplets were brutal against his scalding skin, pinpricks of pleasure biting at his nerves anytime a stray spray of water managed to hit his groin or lower body.

Never was it harder to keep his hands still and clean; he’d have to lean against the shower wall or fist his hands against his cuisses just to stop from touching himself when the worst pangs of desire hit.

He’d masturbated before, of course he had. He’d done much worse, too, that much was apparent. But when his body belonged more to his service than himself, touching himself always felt like a shameful affair, a loophole in the oath he’d taken that he didn’t want to return to. Mandalorians weren’t celibate, per se, the life just didn’t lend itself to individuality or vulnerability. And, well, there was no more vulnerable position than when you were lost in your own pleasure, unaware of your surroundings.

It wasn’t right. He couldn’t just suddenly leave the well-structured life he’d formed. He couldn’t return to the way it was back then, when he’d abandoned his life's purpose for momentary satisfaction. 

But the fantasies....they were bleeding through the careful weave of his vision, infecting every second he spent with you. Images of your bare chest on full display for him to touch and worship, for his fingers and teeth to bite and press into, just to hear the way you’d squeal at his harsh touches. _Maker_ , how hard-up he’d be to get his cock in between them, to have you on your knees using your breasts to pleasure him, dripping strings of saliva down on the head to smooth the friction.

He can see it now, how those petal pink lips would look wrapped around his dick, tears dripping down the sides of your face as you tried with all your might to take him a just a _little_ deeper, when he knew for a fact your much smaller body would always be overshadowed by his imposing height and build.

And not even just that, but how would his fingers look tracing the edges of your swollen pussy? Would you shiver at his every touch, pull away from him with overstimulation, only to leave his hands wet with evidence of your own desperation? Would you take him hard and fast, let him fuck you into the mattress like some whore in a Nabooin brothel? Or would you shrink under his touch, unwilling to be knocked down a peg or two?

_No_ , you _would_ submit to him. That, or he’d find some other way to still that running mouth of yours.

But all of it just begs the question: when all’s said and done, how would your pretty, puffy pussy look like leaking with his cum? How would it look, all fluttering and loose, yet still hopelessly clinging onto every drop he’d given you?

_Maker_ , it’s just so--

_No. Stop._

He mentally chastises himself where he sits in the cockpit chair, monitoring the controls for a few minutes before he retires to his bunk while you work on getting the kid to sleep. His hands tighten on the clutch, brows taut beneath the helmet while he wills himself not to get too worked up over something as stupid as a passing fantasy.

He clears his throat, flicking on the autopilot once he’s successfully cleared his mind. He stands with a small sigh, tilting his helmet back to look at the ceiling, as if to say to the sky _“Maker, why?”_

And _why_ indeed.

He exits the cockpit with his brows in an irritated furrow, body tight with stress and nervousness over the fact that now he’d have to see you off for the night, stare you down, and pretend like he wasn’t secretly drinking in every move your body made.

“Finally got the little womp rat down for the count,” a voice suddenly calls out to him, shocking him out of his thoughtful stupor with a flinch.

“Yeah,” he shakily answers, unwilling to let his visor tilt in your direction, unless he wants to spend the rest of the night thinking about things he has no right to think about.

He can see in his peripheral the way your head leans skeptically against the frame of the doorway you stand in, the child’s pram floating innocently behind you. It would be the spitting image of outer-rim domesticity, if he’d have been willing to acknowledge it. 

He hears the sound of a breath escape your lips and you tiredly cross your arms over your bust (which looks sublime, really, without the chest band) and quirk an eyebrow at his visor.

“You okay, Mando?” you ask, uncharacteristically gentle with your tone, “You’ve been quiet the past few days--well, _quieter_ than usual, that is.”

At that, he really doesn’t know what to say, because...how in the world could he explain the situation without sounding like a madman?

_Oh, sorry, I’ve just been ignoring you because every time I look you in the eye I get harder than a fucking rock?_

Yeah, right.

“M’okay,” he settles instead, trying to straighten his posture to look more like the man he’d been before this all came along: unaffected, invincible.

The expression you wear tells him you’re not convinced, but you leave the subject where it hangs in the air, responding with a small, disbelieving _‘if you say so, Mando.’_

You brush past him, then, your bare arm just barely skimming his own clothed one, and he watches you go with a bitter sense of disappointment curling in his throat. 

Maker, he needs to get over this soon.

He walks slowly to his own bunk, carefully stripping down to his base layers and under armor, before shedding that, too. Left only in his tunic, pants, boxers and helmet, he carefully removes the thing from his head, staring down at the sharp-cuts of the metal face, totally expressionless where it stares back at him from in his hands.

He inhales sharply, hurriedly setting it aside before he can think about it too much--or rather, think about what it means to him too much.

Instead, he settles back against the blankets stiffly, willing his mind to be obedient and empty until he can fall asleep, completely devoid of anything other than the comforting notion that he’s protected by the four walls of his bunk now, where nothing--physical or otherwise--can come for him.

But like these things always go, that’s not quite the case. Unfortunately for him, though, his mind isn’t the one who gets to decide when his body’s had enough.

He wakes up with a start hardly a couple hours later, the small space of his quarters suddenly hotter than he could ever remember it being before. His muscles ache-- _maker_ , his legs are numb, like he’d just spent a good hour chasing a quarry with the full weight of his cuisses and shin-guards holding him back. Never mind the fact he’s panting like he did just that, either, breaths coming fast and loud in the suffocating darkness. He blinks wearily as he remotely registers the racing beat of his heart, forcing himself to take stock of whatever situation was currently occurring.

It’s only when he moves to sit up in bed that he vaguely registers the feeling of his waistband sticking to his abs, slick with sweat or something else maybe. He hunches back against the bed, using one elbow to prop himself up while the other shucks the blankets off and rucks his shirt up on his chest--only for his sleep-addled mind to promptly crash back to reality the minute he sees white fluid smeared carelessly across his stomach and groin, pants soaked through at the top, where the dripping head of his cock peaks just barely from under the fabric.

_A wet dream. He’d just had a wet dream._

His breaths still bleed rapidly into the air, mind all but blanking as he struggles under the numbing waves of pleasure that still courses through his blood with each steady inhale. Sure, he feels weak, but the set of his back and body are more relaxed than ever, pelvis twitching upwards so often with unconscious relief. Semen coats his dick and thighs, a heavy reminder that for as much as he could hold-himself back during the day, his body didn’t belong solely to his brain at night.

And it sure as hell didn’t belong entirely to his culture either. 

_Fuck_ , he’s somehow _still_ hard, too, leaking over his hip-bones, as if one orgasm wasn’t enough for his insatiable tastes. Eyes locked onto the pitiful sight, unwilling to blink or move, the beeping of a far-off monitor shakes him back to his senses, where he struggles to get his legs under him fast enough to pull out of his mangled bed sheets and shuffle towards the ‘fresher.

He hurriedly grabs his helmet from where it lays next to the palate, haphazardly shoving it over his head as he goes, just in case you happened to wake up while he was out of bed.

(And what a fucking predicament that would be. Maker, he doesn’t even want to imagine it.)

He aggressively flicks the lights on, staring his own helmet down in the mirror, the thing bobbing every so often with his panicked, labored breathing. He can see his torso too now, in its full, ruined glory, glistening with the pearly evidence of his release while his pants are equally as unsalvageable. 

With shaking hands, he manages to get the shirt off his body, trying his best not to look his reflection in the visor, lest he want to be reminded of how shameful this entire situation was. 

He watches with blurry vision as he reaches towards his stained waistband, pulling it back just enough for his hard cock to properly lay against his stomach, while he tries not to gape over _just how much of it_ there was.

_Fuck, how pent-up had he been?_

He swallows tersely. Against his better judgement, he reaches a hand out to skim over a few drops, fingertip gently lifting the milky fluid away from the taut muscles of his stomach. He looks down at his hand for a few seconds, his fingers now equally as messy as his abdomen, since he’d gone and run them through the mess.

And for just a minute, he stands there, mind blanking, as he simply takes in the sight. 

And like the past week of bodily torture had been for nothing, his unstable grip moves downwards just enough to lay a finger on the head of his dick. 

He gasps sharply at the contact, breathing already picking back up to its previous blistering pace from a single, stupid touch alone. He pauses there, racking his brain for some excuse for what he’s about to do-- _an excuse for what he’ll think about while doing it._

Yet, when he comes up empty-handed, he doesn’t pull his fingers away. Instead, he moves lower to cup his balls, pulling his cock entirely above the waistband before he shakily grips his shaft to give himself a few unsure tugs.

Just at the sensation of his hand alone, he has to lean against the sink, already doubling over at just how _goddamn_ good it feels to finally get release. The cum still sticking to his palms just joins the mess he’s currently making, droplets of pre-cum quickly joining the mix, too, until the obscene sound of his own arousal can be heard with each slow stroke. 

Even more sickeningly, though, he can’t take his eyes off of his own movements. He watches in unwavering enchantment as his hand hurriedly soothes the itch he’d been fighting for weeks on end now, using his own semen and fluids as some sort of lubrication, like a goddamn heathen.

“Fuck-- _Fuck,_ ” he whispers to himself as he watches with rapt attention, stomach clenching with a building heat underneath his skin. He can feel himself twitch in his hands, balls pulling up tight between his legs as he resists thrusting, trying to drag out a show that had long since reached its conclusion.

He cums embarrassingly early, unable to smother the loud groan that’s ripped from his lungs at the sensation. His body jerks slightly with every rope that lands across his torso and knuckles, roughly stroking himself up until the moment his body begins to reject his own touch. 

It all comes crashing back then.

The dim lights of the fresher that flicker every so often. His pants that are pulled down just enough to get his dick above his waistband. The loud, panting breaths that escape his voice-coder coming out harsher than he’s sure they mean to. He lazily looks down at himself.

Maker, _it’s a sight_ ; the look of his bare stomach and tan skin defiled by the white drops of his own release, hands equally as wet and trembling, stained permanently with the symbol of his own inability to control himself.

Burning, painful humiliation crawls up his spine hardly a second later, some muted voice in his head demanding he clean himself up and get back to bed before another person can bear witness to his wrongdoings. Steadily, he tucks himself back into his pants, quietly shoving his hands under the stream of the sink, pointedly not thinking too hard about what this all means.

He’s disgusted with himself. Though, in reality, he’s more guilty than anything. The fact that he’d stood here in the ‘fresher the two of you shared during the day, leaned up against the wall and jerked himself off, and even had the audacity to finish more than once, all on account of the fact that he can’t get you off of his mind.

Blood rushes to his cheeks as he washes his hands and reaches for a towel. Unwillingly, something calls him to lift his head and look in the mirror, to look at the helmet that always stared faithfully back at him, a badge of the devotion and reverence he had for his religion. 

It’s tragic. 

He looks away hardly a minute later, unable to scrutinize himself any longer, knowing he’d betrayed the standards he’d held himself to for so long. He leans against the sink, head hung in heavy mortification, as thoughts run circles around his brain.

This is the _only_ time. 

It will be the only time he allows himself to break. 

He’d indulged long enough tonight; he finally gave into what his instincts demanded, and without them constantly barking up his tree, it should now be doubly as easy to return to the way things once were, when he didn’t have to worry about you realizing how much of a pervert he actually was.

It’ll be the only time. 

And as much as he feels better that next morning, things get equally worse. 

At every turn, no longer is it just the look of _your_ body that occupies his thoughts, but rather, _his own_ too. It’s the smooth expanse of your skin compared to the scarred plains of his; it’s the way his shoulders are broader in double measure when compared to your own, how he knew he’d hardly have to put any weight behind the movement if he wanted to pin you beneath him.

And, _maker,_ the thought of the way he’d looked that night--stomach covered in his own cum with sticky hands and a flushed neck--hardly leaves him. He reimagines the scenario a hundred times over, until his brain finally conjures the image of you kneeling next to him that night, naked as the day you were born, licking his dirty fingers clean when he should have just used the sink instead.

It’s back to that vicious cycle. Only now, he has enough shame to keep his hands above the sheets long enough to convince himself the urges have passed.

But it's always stuck in the back of his mind, gnawing at his patience and temper. He’s more irritable than usual, body stiff with resolute control. Yet his eyes still uselessly follow when your tits end up in his face when you lean across the table to reach for something at a cantina, or when your ass sits pretty and plump where it peeks out beneath the edges of your pajama shorts during afternoon naps on the Crest.

Fuck, even just the way you hold the child is getting to him now. 

It’s in the way you cradle him to your chest with that loving hold only a mother could manage that makes him wonder if you’d want to be one someday (if you’d want him to _make_ you one someday).

Thankfully, the helmet conceals every lingering glance and tense swallow, manages to hold every unjust thought he has safely inside his brain, where he’s free to imagine how gorgeous you’d look if you’d let him find some other way to get your fast, silver-tongued mouth to just _shut up_ for a while.

And of course, above all else, the condemnation that still pushes down on him every time his scattered brain finds the gall to imagine you being anything more than his mechanic sticks fast to his body too. Even just touching the pages of the Texts feels insincere now, every sentence about the concealment of skin just begging an opposing image, whether that image be his, or yours.

Even as he tries day after day to convince himself the incessant need he’d had before had been worked out of his system, the rampant stream of obscenity he’d been obsessing over lately begs to differ.

So really, it’s hardly a surprise when it breaks a second time.

He comes to with a jerk, body suddenly stilling as he’s rocked back to awareness. He stifles a groan when he feels the pressure of a pillow at his hip (something he’s loath to admit he’d probably been thrusting into for what looks like the better part of a very _disturbing_ dream).

Not only that, but his entire body is straining with need, _nauseatingly_ close to orgasm mere seconds after his waking. And before he can even try to hold himself back, he’s cumming with a sharp gasp, the hot feeling of his own ejaculate against his stomach punctuating an involuntary and rather loud moan.

His chest rises and falls swiftly, a blinding urgency coursing through his veins as his head thrashes against the bare mattress. He’s so _hot_ , so _hard_ , so _painfully desperate_ he can’t ignore it any longer.

_Fuck_ , it’s not going down this time either. 

He stays hard as rock even through the high, the tip of his shaft twitching harshly against the fabric of his boxers and the skin of his sweat-slick body. He can feel the damp material sticking to the underside of his cock, every movement of his writhing hips sending white spots dancing behind his vision.

He’s not going to make it to the ‘fresher in time tonight.

Without thinking twice, he shoves his hand down the front of his boxers, not even trying to muffle the obnoxiously noisy sound of his rapid breathing. As soon as his fingers make contact, his hips are lifting off the palate, fruitlessly searching for the friction he so direly craves. He plants his feet to get a better hold, using the leverage to grind upwards with uncontrolled speed and intensity, already moving his hand faster than he’d managed a few nights before.

“Oh, _fuck_ \--” he groans helplessly with his head thrown back against the bed, hardly caring whether or not the volume of his voice would carry throughout the ship. He pants loudly, moaning incessantly into the air as he all but fucks his own fist, moving as fast as his body will allow, any notion of modesty or restraint having been thrown out the window the second his hand had met his waistband.

He imagines _you_ instead of his hand, unbidden and bared for him, with the slick heat he knew would quell the feeling in his stomach wrapped tight around his leaking dick. In his mind, there’s an equally vulnerable look on your face as you move, bouncing down on his cock just as hard as he manages to thrust up, yelling his name while he yells yours. He can see it now, his body joined with yours, held against his steadfast and urgent, where you lose your pride and hurriedly beg him to fuck you faster--to go as deep as he possibly can before he cums inside of you.

“ _Mak--_ ” he tries to speak, only for his wavering voice to be cut-off with a growl, another round of deep vocalizations following as his hand picks up its pace, slapping against his stomach as he violently chases his release.

With a few more stunted thrusts, the peak hits and his cadence cracks, a sonorous, comforted moan breaking the air as his torso is painted for a second time with his own fluids, hips hardly stilling until he’s sure he’s gotten every last bit. 

And once the air returns to his lungs, he simply lays there, just staring at the ceiling of his quarters while he tries to process what just came over him, what caused him to drop character so severely.

However, stripped down to just his boxers, which sit askew next to his softening cock, blankets thrown off and body bared for all the air to touch, he can’t find it in himself to think too much of it. Like it was a habit at this point, his hands run tremulous lines over his abs and hips, smearing the cum across his stomach just like he’d done before. 

And for the first time since he was 20 years old, he lets himself imagine how it’d feel if someone were here to lick it off of him instead, here to give him what he needed in order to stop the thoughts from running rampant in his head.

It goes without saying that your face is the one that pops up the first time he lets himself think freely in two decades.


	2. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON STORY ELEMENTS

NOTES: hello hello!! okay so these notes are sort of important since I kind of reimagined Mandalorian culture and what Din’s upbringing may have been like. Since it’s not exactly described in the show, I felt like I had the freedom to write it this way~~ I also made Din a more strictly religious person than he comes off as in the show, so there’s that as well~ but let’s just get into it!!

1\. THE BOOK OF TEXTS: so I think all of you know that there really isn’t a religious text for the Mandalorians (at least not that we know of). However, in the show, the Armorer does mention that there are several different stories that follow the evolution of their society as well as legends regarding the Mythosuar and things like that! So, I created this fictional Book of Texts for Din in this story to create a more traditionally religious atmosphere that compares to what we see in our own world with things like the Bible, for example. HOWEVER, when I mention the Book of Texts in the story, I’m not thinking of an overarching narrative that tells the story of human creation with gods and whatnot. In my mind, The Book of Texts is more a collection of Mandalorian history, legends, and lessons regarding moral character and principles of life. So it’s not so much that Din’s worshipping some sort of figure when he reads the Book of Texts, but rather is reminding himself of the core values his culture considers important.

2\. DIN’S BUIR: okay admittedly this is probably the most far-fetched of the aspects of this story. However, considering the entire plot of the Mandalorian centers around the fact that Din gets a foundling and is supposed to act as its father (according to the Armorer herself), I think that we can infer that if Din was adopted as a foundling, he would have had some sort of parental figure in his life to be there as he grew up. In the show, we witness a Mandalorian save him just after his parents are killed. In the context of this story, I pretty much just wanted to extend upon that and imagine that the man who’d saved him eventually raised him and passed his armor onto him when he was no longer fit to wear it himself (as we see Jango Fett do with regards to Boba Fett as well).

3\. THE FIGHTING CORP: It’s mentioned in the show that after Din was adopted he was raised in the fighting corp! However, I twisted that a little bit by making joining the fighting corp an option for older Mandalorians, so Din was essentially an adult at this point. Since Mandalorian culture revolves around war and the like, it would have been an extremely pious and reverent decision for him to join the Fighting Corp and sort of embody the ideals his ancestors had as soldiers. So the fact that the fighting corp actually sort of destroys his perception of his culture is a juxtaposition to what was actually supposed to be the peak of his experience as a young Mandalorian. I also just sort of wanted to imagine gangly teenager din?? like imagine how scrawny he was at the beginning, only to grow up and become more skilled as the time moves on!! Also another important idea I had that’s not directly detailed in the story but is implied by the fighting corp anecdotes. When entering the fighting corp, up until your graduation, you wouldn’t wear the armor that was given to you by your buir or passed onto you by your ancestors. In a sense, you’d have to earn the right to wear it through your hard work and training. So instead of wearing that armor, I imagined they would have uniform armor that looks the same for every student (like how school uniforms work pretty much?), but they’re made of durasteel instead of beskar since we all know beaker is incredibly hard to find and also very expensive. So this armor is pretty simple, both groups have chest plates and the like (sans the codpiece for the girls of the group), and would probably all be painted the same color!! Also, at graduation, the students finally don their full beskar armor as a sign that they’ve matured and earned their place as warriors in Mandalorian society!

4\. DIN’S INDUCTION CEREMONY: okay so this is also just completely made up by me kdjflajf I think that since the Mandalorians are losing numbers rather terrifically, the induction of new members to the Creed is a very joyful and important date for both the person/child being inducted as well as the buir who raised said foundling. I mention that Din’s buir is wearing specially outfitted seals; this would be awarded to him for having fully devoted himself to his culture and religion in having passed it on to his son, who will then become an integral member of the community.

5\. OTHER THEMES OF THE STORY: okay so this story turned out a lot deeper than I originally had planned. Like legit, this was just supposed to be a story about Din having wet dreams at first, but then turned into something else entirely. I just wanna high light the overarching theme of the story that Din believes his body and his thoughts belong more to his culture and his religion than to himself. After fantasizing about the reader and going back and forth with himself, I wanted the eventual resolution to be that Din finally realizes that being a part of his culture and religion does not, In fact, remove his humanity, and that while he can certainly feel detached from life living the way he does, he doesn’t need to intentionally isolate himself with the belief that that’s what the core values of his way of life are.

YAY!! okay so there will probably be a part two to this someday but for now im gonna leave this as it is~~ I hope you all liked the story!! Pls don’t forget that my DMs and asks are always open for requests or if you just wanna chat!! I love you all so so much~~ (AND ALSO!!! Special thanks to imnotinlove-thisisnotyoursong on tumblr for helping me plot this story and for cheering me on while I was writing!! I LOVE YOU BERLI)

**Author's Note:**

> **[NOTES ARE LISTED IN THE SECOND CHAPTER AND DESCRIBE PARTS OF THE CREATIVE LIBERTIES TAKEN WHICH MAY BE IMPORTANT TO UNDERSTANDING THIS STORY]**
> 
> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)


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